Needed by Luvscharlie
Warnings: Age disparity, mother issues, inappropriate relationship, rubber suit fetish, May contain spoilers up to S1E8, "Rubber Suit Man" despite the fact that it is set prior to the Harmons moving in to Murder House.
A/N: Originally written on a whim and posted at my Live Journal. My first fic in this fandom. I have the strangest affection for Nora Montgomery. There's just something about her that makes me want to write her.
I've never been good enough. Not for any woman. Not any girlfriend. Not my sister. Certainly not my mother. Hell, even the maid hated me.
I was never enough that a girlfriend chose to stick around when someone better looking or more popular came along. No, then it was always Tate who? I don't know any Tate. Of course she didn't. I didn't play football or have many friends. The girls who chose to seek me out at all were those looking for someone to save. I was as good a case as any for that; better than most.
My sister, despite her own problems, saw through me like no one else. She loved me despite the inner demons of mine that she was able to see (not even she could see them all), but that only made it worse. I couldn't be her hero; I wasn't much of a hero at all. When someone in the neighborhood picked on Addie, I'd step in and tell them to fuck off (I was a good screamer), but that usually earned me a bloody nose or some bruised ribs. So, after a while, I stopped bothering, and I could see the look of accusation in her eyes when I said nothing if someone knocked her down and took her doll.
Accusation was something I was most familiar with. Accusations like that I drove my father way. Mother says so every chance she gets. She says it was the fact that I was off my rocker that sent Moira running from the house too. She thinks I'm too stupid to see what really happened. But the house talked to me long before we moved out (I don't remember much about that, only that Mom and Addie didn't live here anymore and I didn't see them much, which I was glad about), and I knew. I knew it all. I hated her before, but really hated her after that. She blamed me for everything. Nothing was ever her own damn fault. The gun wasn't in my hand, but that didn't stop it from being my fault. Insanity, it seemed, was a family trait.
But then one day, after we had moved out and after the fire that took those three girls, I was in the basement. Addie and I always loved this house and even after we moved out, I couldn't stay away. Addie couldn't stay away either. I saw her here a lot. In fact, if you asked me to describe my room in the new house, I probably couldn't. It's weird how I never remember being there.
But it was then that I met her. She was so pretty with her lovely blonde hair and her past-era clothes. It seemed as though she appreciated old things; vintage clothes, old jewelry. She seemed so—I don't know how to describe it really—but I felt drawn to her, and I wanted nothing more than to erase that sad half-smile/half-grimace from her lovely face.
"I've lost my baby," she said, looking all about her. "I think someone's taken him away from me." She began to wring the lacy bit of handkerchief in her hands and twist at a large diamond on her ring finger. "Why would someone do such a thing? Take a little baby away from its mother?"
I didn't have any answers, but the urge to wrap my arms around her was too much to resist. I stroked her hair, feeling a large bump beneath her pinned up tresses, and whispered nonsense words and felt more grown up than I'd ever felt. I wanted to help her, and I'd never wanted to do that for anyone else in my life. She just seemed so helpless, so pitiful, so needing of something that I suddenly knew I, and only I, could give her.
"We'll get you a new one," I said with confident and comforting pats to her back.
"A new baby? A new—I'm not sure. I don't think—do you really think you could? I want to hold it and nurse it and just-"
"Love it?" I whispered.
"Yes." And she seemed so grateful that I understood, and I knew she would love it. Love it unconditionally. Never blame it for her own failures or her very fucked up life. Whatever had happened in Nora Montgomery's past, she needed this, and I was ready to be someone's hero again. Maybe I needed it too. Not the baby; the needing to be needed.
The open houses started even before the damage from the fire had been cleaned up. The new owners were destined to get a steal of a bargain, and that crazy real estate lady pushed hard telling every person who saw the house how much money they could make if they'd only renovate and resell. Despite the law that forced her to do otherwise, she didn't tell anyone that someone (three someones, in fact) had actually died inside the house during the inferno.
The second couple to see the house was a lovely young married couple. They seemed perfect, at first, and I hoped they'd make an offer. But then the real estate agent mentioned what a lovely room one upstairs would make for a nursery and the lady snarled her nose in a way that made it clear that they had no intention of bringing a baby in to this house. That wouldn't do, so as they were leaving, I knocked a vase off the mantelpiece and rattled a few windows, then kicked open the door to scare all hell out of her. It didn't even take much effort to scare them away, so I knew this house was too good for them.
The third "potential buyer" had heard about the fires in the newspapers. She came only to see the "murder house". That name made me laugh; some people just didn't understand how special this house was. And those people certainly didn't deserve it.
The fourth couple to consider buying was a gay couple, and I knew they had to go before they made an offer. They'd never give my Nora what she wanted, and I was determined to be her savior. But when the one called Chad made the suggestion about a pale green nursery upstairs and how perfect it would be for the family they planned to start, I paused and realized that this was who I had been waiting for—who we had been waiting for.
They were looking to start a family; not exactly a "normal" family dynamic, but who the fuck was I to judge what was normal. I'd had a mother and a father, and look how I'd turned out. And this baby wouldhave a mother, one who loved it and cared for it, and held it to her soft breasts as she cuddled it close and cooed maternal sounds.
I got hard just thinking of her sometimes. Nora would be so grateful when I handed her my gift. So grateful that she'd kiss me and tell me how well I'd done. There would be praise and affection and everything I wanted from her; all that I'd found lacking in my own family make-up.
When Chad and Patrick moved in, I had hope. But the house, for all its spectacularness, had a way of crushing hope and taking away my heroism. The months passed and talk of babies was quickly replaced with arguments about finances and their lack thereof.
I was falling from my pedestal, where Nora had placed me. She believed in me. She knew I'd deliver her that baby she needed so much; the one she was still looking for as she roamed the house. I was sure that sometimes the one called Patrick heard her wails of sorrow and longing when he was hunched over his laptop with one cock in his hand and the other on his keyboard.
It was when the arguments began to escalate that I knew they had to go. There was no more talk of love and babies, only screaming matches about torrid love affairs and rubber suits. When the actual fetish suit came into the house—that was the final straw. They were making the house seedy, bringing into it nothing but perversion and anger. They made my Nora sad. These people didn't deserve to be here, and I was the only one with balls enough to take them out. Being someone's hero was a harder job than one might imagine.
But the suit, despite its luridness, drew me in. I couldn't stop myself from touching it, running my hands over the zippers, feeling the shiny, smooth latex beneath my fingertips, pouring baby oil over my body as I slid into it, pulling the hood over my face… and when Nora saw me in it, and ran her hand down my front, touching my chest, my stomach, sliding it between my legs and cupping my balls, I came hard and fast, a guttural growl escaping from between my lips. This vulgar suit owned a piece of me, and I liked it.
And Nora stood upon her tiptoes and planted a kiss on my mouth, through the hood, and whispered, "Such a good boy. You'll find me my baby, I know you will." And my determination could not have been more renewed or reinvigorated.
I was standing at the window the day the Harmons arrived. They looked like a nice enough family, but I was no stranger to the delusions of what made for a nice family. To the casual observer, my own might once have looked like it lived in a little white house with the picket fence and two point five children. Once, we'd even had a little dog, much like the one this family had, adding to the illusion of normalcy. Normal was what you assumed everyone was until you scratched the surface and took a look beneath. One peek into someone's bedside table or their closet and you quickly discovered that normal was just a word and one with little to no meaning.
Nora came up behind me in the middle of my observation. "She's the one," Nora whispered in my ear. "She'll give me what I need. I feel it."
I heard her, but mostly I was looking at the young girl following her family into the house, and there was something about her that made me know she was special. Maybe it was the same thing that made Nora know that this lady was the one that would make her dreams of a baby come true.
She pulled me from my window and down into the basement, where she kissed me long and hard, pulling free the buckle of my belt, and pushing my jeans down around my knees.
"What are you doing?" I asked as she got down on her knees before me.
"Mothers reward good boys for jobs well done, love. You've made me so proud."